


past pleasantries

by phaenomenaa



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 21:33:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3183917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phaenomenaa/pseuds/phaenomenaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants to love her, but she is not his to love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time his eyes fall on hers, he thinks he’s in love. 

She stands between two men, smiling with a glass of champagne held between her pale white delicate fingers. Her light lavender pink lips part to release peals of delicious, saccharine laughter. Her peridot green eyes glint so very much like the effervescent refreshment she sips from, and her laugh echoes throughout the room, feminine and pretty. Ludwig thinks he must ask for her hand right away, but to do so, he realizes quickly, he must speak to her — God forbid he speak to her like the blundering fool he is.

He tilts his head towards his friend, slightly nudging the older man. He discreetly points towards her with his own drink, inquiring about her person. Roderich turns and mutters something about a Miss Emma Martens coming from the Bonnefoy household, being under their care for the season. 

After casting a glance at his tall cousin, the aristocrat informs Ludwig of her poor background — she is of the third class, daughter of a deceased clergyman — not a suitable match, at least, not according to him. The young man merely nods, not particularly hearing — nor caring — whatever his friend has said as he admires the young woman across the room, entranced. 

Roderich watches him and knows he’s already far too infatuated to reason with. Poor boy, he thinks.

.

They are introduced to one another later that evening.

Her cheeks are flushed pink from the alcohol and his are tinged red from clumsiness. Erzsébet retreats with a knowing smile, professing some apology about having to check up on her husband. 

Ludwig turns towards the retreating dame, mouth opening with a want to call her back at his side — he is completely lost, alone, in this young woman’s presence. He pointedly tries not to glare nor look too intimidating and gains back his composure to face the pretty little thing at his side. She is even more delightful up close, Ludwig thinks, and he prays he’ll not scare her away with his imposing stature and inscrutable visage. 

The nervous man glances down, worried of her expression. He finds she is grinning handsomely, the green of her eyes sparkling. She speaks first and ponders whether he’s danced yet. Before he can deny (for the man has poor grace) she is already moving towards the dance floor, settling her glass on a servant’s tray and looking over her shoulder at him, inviting. 

Ludwig frowns and lowly pleas a call of her name, but she is resolute on waltzing. He sighs, sets his own refreshment down and follows her. 

.

Ludwig loses count of the dances they’ve waltzed — he realizes he doesn’t particularly care, as long as he’s still in her company. For the moment, he is back at Roderich’s side, his dance partner having left to freshen up. 

He remembers her slightly uneven breath, her laughter as she declared him quite good at waltzing, and God, he remembers her touch on his shoulder, the feel of her palm against his. 

Whilst they danced, he learned that she too was interested in economy — she bragged she would make a far better tradesmen than her brother, were it not for her being of the fairer sex — and she too indulges in reading, particularly romance novels (although he himself was too shy to admit he cared for romance too). 

He cannot fathom how he thought himself afraid of her.

.

Gilbert eventually comes round, a drink in his hand, and stands next to his taller sibling. 

“And what has my dearest brother been doing this evening?” he jests, laughing. “How well are you acquainted with this wall, brother?”

“You must find yourself so very amusing, Gilbert.” Ludwig replies, a small smile on his lips. His eyes glance towards the main hall doorway, anxiously waiting for Miss Martens to come back. 

“You’ll be pleased to hear that I do not _find_ myself amusing but _am_.”

Ludwig grins, looking down at his older brother. “Then you shall be disappointed to know that I’ve not just stood here all this time.”

“No!” Gilbert mocks astonishment, taking a sip from his beverage. “Do humour me, what have you been doing then?”

“I’ve danced,” the youngest declares, blush dusting his face.

“Danced? With whom, Roderich?”

Ludwig scowls at his brother before answering chastely the name of his partner.

“Martens…” Gilbert rolls the name over his tongue a few times, thinking. “The Bonnefoy girl?”

“Just so.”

Gilbert stares at his brother, smiling. Ludwig does not note the harsh look in his brother’s eyes, despite the joyous face. The elder sibling claps him on the back, muttering some congratulations about him maybe not being such a stick in the mud and retreats, weaving his way through the crowds of people.

.

At the end of the night, he catches her one last time, their eyes brushing over one another’s look. He poorly asks if he may call on her presence some time, but of course he wouldn't want to impose and completely understands should she decline and quite honestly he’s not surpri —

she stops him with a soft call of his name. She turns (lips curved, just shy of a smile) towards her coach and meanders off in the fresh midsummer night, her step light and demure. 

He is left in the dark with her last words, repeated only to him. 

_'I think I would like that very much, Mr. Beilschmidt.'_

He smiles yet again like the blundering fool he is.


	2. Chapter 2

A fortnight later, he musters enough courage to call on her presence.

(Gilbert had smiled knowingly when Ludwig asked for the courier, stating that he merely wished to send a small something — something of no import, he had said. Of course, Gilbert could always tell when his dear brother lied.)

The card is effectively short and straight to the point; nonetheless, the whole Bonnefoy household is alerted of its arrival. Emma races down the stairs, grinning like mad and mindful not to trip on her gown as she calls for her chaperon’s name.

Instead, she finds Monsieur Bonnefoy’s old friend Mr. Kirkland (although they may dupe society with their alleged friendship, Emma is no fool.) He stands at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, thick eyebrows scrunched up.

“He’s invited me for a half-month.” she says, breathless in her mirth as she hands over the letter.

“Of course he has!” The Englishman frowns, taking hold of it. “Any sensible young man would,” he says, his eyes scanning the writing briefly. He looks back towards Emma, eyes narrowing in disapproval. “And any sensible young woman would _know_ not to bound down the stairs like some bumbling baboon.”

“It appears that if anybody were to be the living embodiment of an incomprehensible primate, it would be you, _Mr. Kirkland_ ,” her chaperon declares, entering the grand hall. “Let her be content, Arthur.”

“Yes, well. She will not be courting with that sort of behaviour,” Arthur grunts.

“Then I am to go?” Emma asks, the lilt of her voice holding a touch of naiveté. 

“ _Biensûr, ma chérie_!” Francis answers, smiling. “It would be most foolish to refuse a call from such a promising affair!”

“And are we not fools in love,” Arthur grumbles, handing back the letter to the girl, but she doesn't hear his petty comment, for she’s already dashing back upstairs to pack her bags, and _oh my, I've got to tell Erzsébet!_

.

Erzsébet laces her dearest friend’s arm with hers, sauntering deeper into Francis’s garden. They walk in pleasant muteness under the early aurora sun, both women silenced with pensive thoughts.

“Do you find many amenities in Mr. Edelstein?” Emma asks, her voice quiet.

Erzsébet chuckles prettily and turns towards her friend, finding her to be quite serious. “Yes, I—” she stops, not quite sure what sort of answer her friend wishes to hear. “Well, yes. I suppose I do.”

“What I mean to convey—that is, hope for—is the question of whether Mr. Edelstein grants you happiness with his affections?”

“Oh! yes—yes, very much so.” Erzsébet replies, “I am quite content with Roderich.”

“Do you love him?” she inquires, bashful.

“Emma,” she says as her step falters, stopping their promenade, “do you forget me? to hold such deep an engagement with another and feel no affection? I could never.” She holds the naive girl’s hands in her own, pulling her towards her person. “We've great fortune in falling in love, Emma. One would be ill-advised to trifle with such matters of the heart; we've the utmost luxury to find someone with whom to share these very things,” she reflects, letting go of their entwined hands to drop on a bench.

Emma lowers herself beside her friend, her bare feet digging into the ground, humid with the early morning’s dew.

“To marry a man whose best virtue is his wealth is great luck,” Erzsébet says in a low voice, as if a confession, “but to marry a man whom you love is an even greater one.”

The fair-headed girl nods, plucking a forget-me-not from the fresh ground to toy with. “Then you must be fate’s protégée,” she muses, delicately placing the flower in Erzsébet’s hair.


	3. Chapter 3

Gilbert looks up from his seat when he hears his brother enter the drawing room, hands clasped behind his back. He motions for him to come in, alcohol sloshing about in his glass with the wave of his hand.

Ludwig steps cautiously towards his own armchair, a lavish seat of velvety blue fabric, and settles himself in it, still questioning of his brother’s motive—rarely is it that Gilbert inquires about Ludwig after dark, often caught up in attending social events he has no care for.

“Needn't look so frugal, brother,” the elder man grins. “I merely wished to talk.”

“What of?”

“Oh, you know. Of this and that,” he says, sipping slowly from his glass, wine trickling down his throat.

Ludwig sighs and reclines into his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “You've something on your mind, haven’t you?”

Red eyes droop to look into the tightly held vial, staring into the rouge colour. He tries for a smile, but it falters with his kin’s raised eyebrows. With a slow exhale, he tells lamely, “Father’s worsened, you know.”

“It was to be anticipated,” Ludwig articulates slowly, his face darkening. “How bad does he fare?”

“Bad.” The answer is disclosed in an icy voice, suggestive of an even worse health than _bad_. “Ever since Mother passed, his health has been poorly—but you, leaving to study law…It’s not helped.” 

The elder brother sighs again, “No, not helped at all.”

“Gilbert?” Ludwig questions, curious of where this sudden forlorn attitude wanders from. 

The man in question merely dismisses the query with a motioning hand. “Nevertheless, I didn't ask to see you to speak of Father’s health. You've looked at our income?”

“I—yes, as per usual,” Ludwig answers, startled by the sudden change of subject.

“And what of it have you discerned?”

“Well,” he sighs, “the money’s been dwindling—what with paying for Father’s care and my studies.”

“And?”

“And our fortune is lessened. But what of it? We've enough to sustain our lifestyle—our lands yearly interest is more than enough.”

“Enough to sustain you, Father, Lili, little Bastian and I.”

“Yes, as I've said.”

Gilbert suspires again, gulps the rest of the wine and stands, turning towards his brother. 

“We shan't have enough to abide another family.”

Ludwig’s eyebrows shoot up at his brother’s insinuation, “You’re worried about me—about my marriage.”

“I advise you to be wise in whom you choose to call your wife.”

Ludwig smiles, getting up. “Do not fret, brother. I’ll make a good living with law; a large dowry won’t be of much importance.”

“You've always been the responsible one, Ludwig. I trust you in this decision,” Gilbert declares, setting the cup on a nearby table, face sporting the look of defeat. “Now, I’ll head towards the comfort of my bed. Goodnight, brother.”

Ludwig turns to watch him go, bidding him a good night’s sleep as well, still perplexed with the odd intervention. 

.

Francis calls her from the house, golden locks tinged with the early light-of-day blush, counseling her to make her goodbyes for all are ready to depart. 

Emma voices a low ‘ _oui, j’arrive!_ ’ and turns to her friend, kissing her cheek.

“Do not anguish yourself, Emma. I had you make acquaintance with Mr. Beilschmidt in good faith; undoubtedly you will fancy each other very much.” Erzsébet says, grinning with a knowing look.

“He _is_ rather handsome,” the fair-headed girl declares, sending both women into light chuckles.

“ _Emma,_ ” her chaperon admonishes, “ _dis-lui au revoir!_ ”

The said girl straightens, lifting herself from the seat. “I’ll write you.”

“I do doubt you!” Erzsébet laughs. “I’ve the odd sort of feeling your person will be otherwise occupied.”

“You’ll visit then? You _are_ friends with the Beilschmidts.”

“Yes, yes. Now go, I do so very much hate to see Francis’s unease ruin his fine looks.”

“Liar!” Emma calls teasingly, headed towards her custodian, who ushers her inside with a pointed look. 

Francis leads her to the front of the house, where Arthur and their coach wait for them. She hugs the Englishman, murmuring that she’ll be back before he knows it and he chuckles lightly, answering that she should not come back unless married. He helps her into the carriage and turns towards her guardian.

“You look after her.”

“ _Mais oui, mais oui._ ” Francis replies, with a dismissing wave of the hand. “I always have.”

“Right. Take care, now.” Arthur starts towards the house, meaning to walk past him without a care in the world, but the Frenchman holds him back by the arm, tugging him for a hug; he holds it for a few seconds, wishing for it to never end as he adores prolonging Arthur’s mortification, but he is too anxious to escort Emma. His grasp slackens, and he murmurs a few words of endearment into the Englishman’s ear before pulling back and grinning. He finds Arthur’s face to be flushed red — which he knows not to be out of embarrassment, but rather disgruntlement.

“ _Bon_ , we’ll see one another in a fortnight,” Francis grins, all too pleased. “Do try not to miss me too much.”

“Trust me, your person leaving brings me great joy,” Arthur retorts, stalking past the man with a heavy stride.

Francis chortles as he mounts the coach, sitting on the bench across Emma.

“You tease him too much,” she chastises, smiling.

“Ha! and how do you think he keeps his young looks about him at the tender age of six-and-thirty?” Francis jests, eyes crinkling with amusement. “ _Crois-moi_ , it is not due to his English blood!”

.

The ride is endured in amiable chatter and comfortable silence. Her chaperon indulges in some beauty sleep one moment, the other counseling her in the manners of proper etiquette and seduction. She, for the most part, listens to the theatrical man, nodding and smiling all the while staring out the window, admiring the countryside. She sits, eager to reach the Beilschmidt estate (more so to see Ludwig again, although she won't admit to it because Francis taunts her _enough_ already.)

When they arrive, late in the afternoon, she lets out an involuntary gasp, for the residence is grand and ever so luxurious. The house stands tall, proud; large marble pillars of alabaster colour support the foundation, gardens reminiscent of Versailles surround the imposing abode. Emma’s breath fogs over the window of the coach, her gaze scouring for a better glimpse. 

“Fancy yourself living there?” Francis asks, smiling, body lulled with the motion of the moving vehicle. 

She scoffs, although quite unladylike of her, as Arthur would point out, but then again there is no one to impress. “Francis, please. We have but only spent an evening together—I am not of such fortuitous character.”  
“Yes, well, an evening too short it appears.”

“Francis.” Emma reproaches, hitting his leg with her hand, her cheeks reddening. She glances out again towards the house as he chuckles, she muttering something about him being incorrigible. 

“...it is a nice mansion, I must agree.” There’s a hint of unreserved awe in her voice, Francis notes, and remembers how young of age she is — still so very naive.

“You’d be in luck if he were to inherit of it,” he states, nonchalantly. 

She turns away from the window, curious look on her visage. “Whatever do you mean? Is he not entitled to the estate?”

Francis looks at her, eyebrows raised. “His brother will most likely inherit of the household.”

“ _Brother?_ ”

“Your dear Mr. Ludwig Beilschmidt just so happens to be the second son.”

.

Emma still wonders about this firstborn son when the carriage halts in front of the imposing entrance. Francis pushes the carrosse door open, stepping out to help Emma, gently grasping her hand in his. As she descends the coach steps, grand wooden doors open, revealing Ludwig who steps out, clad in modest linen-white breeches and a waistcoat of deep navy blue colour. 

Francis glances at her with a smile in cheek, and after a steadying breath, Emma stands tall next to her guardian. 

Ludwig meets them in a few strides, fast paced with a nervous bounce in his step. He greets them both with a curt, courteous bow. Francis bows himself, ever so graceful, and his protégée answers the address with a delicate dip of her own. 

“Forgive me, for I do not know of your name,” Ludwig starts, inquiring after Francis.

The latter introduces himself, stating to be Emma’s guardian and friend. Ludwig nods, welcoming him. 

His eyes meet Emma’s, and he greets, “Miss Martens.”

“Mr. Beilschmidt,” she answers, smiling; she finds herself feeling quite fond of his nervous behaviour. 

After a slight pause, Ludwig continues, in an awkward tone. “I hope the trip was not a tiring one.”

“Oh! no, it was not—quite delightful,” Francis answers, he too endeared with Ludwig’s flustered air (enjoying it, rather.)

Ludwig opens his mouth, meaning to answer, but a loud exclamation — belonging to none other than his brother — cuts him off.

“What’s this? our guests have arrived and you do not alarm me, Ludwig?”

Emma peers past her suitor, and figures the man can only be the Mr. Beilschmidt Francis had warned her of. Much like his brother, he reaches them quickly, largely grinning.

“You must have forgotten in your haste—must be the fervent nervousness of love.”

Ludwig flushes a deep red colour, embarrassed.

“Brother, this is Mr. Bonnefoy and his protégée—”

“Your pretty little thing, yes—”

Ludwig grits his teeth, finishing, “Miss Martens.”

Gilbert beams at the new arrivants, a lascivious glint in his eyes. “It is with the utmost pleasure that we welcome you to the Beilschmidt household.”


End file.
